Old enough to know better?

Mine! Don't steal! (Wouldn't it be funny if cucumbers grew this way?) 

I wonder if I could be brutally honest with God. I think I hide with Him as much as others. I hide the down dirty stuff. Everyone does, I guess, but I forget God knows all of it anyway. And I catch myself trying to deny what I'm feeling and trying to gloss over the truth in a prayer with requests and thoughts I imagine He'd like better. Not sure why I still do that.

I imagine God is somewhat like my mother was back when I was three; she'd purse her lips, trying not to smile while patiently unfolding the proof that I'd fibbed (badly). Or the  way she'd say "Where's Jenny? I don't see her, she must be hiding," when I would press my face in the seat cushion of the armchair, still under the impression that if I couldn't see her, she couldn't see me, all while my little rear stuck up in the air.

Sure, it's cute when you're three. But at forty-three, I wonder if God is still amused.

Not like that!

I was whining at my doctor today, trying to explain my frustration about a condition I have: "I just want to be FIXED!"

(Pause) My eyes opened wide.

"Well," I said, "not like a cat! You know what I mean!"

We both laughed, and damned if he didn't say "Sometimes laughter is the best medicine."



Thanks to Lynn Johnson for her own grumpy cat.


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Seeing the creative process in a new way

Same tree I've drawn before, this time in pencil

This made me feel better about how long it takes me to finish a work of art:

"That new idea is rarely the end of the creative process. The sobering
reality is that the grandest revelations often still need work. The
new idea, that thirty millisecond burst of gamma waves has to be
refined. The rough drafts of the right hemisphere, transformed into a
finished piece of work. Such labor is rarely fun, but it's essential.
A good poem is never easy, it must be pulled out of us, like a
splinter."
Jonah Lehrer, Imagine: How creativity works

Painting too!

Going to put the following lyrics over it (from I am a seed, by David Crowder)

Oh I've been pushed down into the ground
Oh how I have been trampled down
Lord I put my trust in thee
You won't turn your back on me

Oh I am a seed
Oh I am a seed
I've been pushed down into the ground
But i will rise up a tree

Drawin' agin

Drawing a tree for a friend and mentor.


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It's a reach.

Drawn from part of a brass sculpture. A little leggy, but I really like it anyway.
Forgot how much I love drawing the figure.


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Manual Husbandry

My husband was unwillingly roped into posing so that I could make this drawing.




Let's just say he graciously lent me a couple of hands, and boy were they tired by the time I returned them.

We were both pleased with the product of his hand modeling gig.

It was nice to draw someone else's hands for awhile. I'm tired of the view I have of my own.

Pastor Jeremiah, I got your back.

Har-d-har.
Another church drawing from awhile back.


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Life is funny. Even when your Mom's dead.

Funny thing happened awhile back when sisters and I got together to divide my mother's ashes.
Wait for it, that wasn't the funny.

She died about a year and a half ago, and it still surprises me sometimes to remember its been that long.

After part of Mom's ashes were thrown into the wind (between torrential downpours on a Kansas highway) there was still a big bag of Mom left over. Carried from one daughter's house to another, (like Queen Lear) she eventually landed in my home office, all tarted up in a party gift bag since the funeral home's respectable somber black carrying bag had ripped. (I hope she liked polka dots. I do.)

We divided Mom between any family members who wanted a piece of her. That turned out to be three daughters, (Becka, Margie and me) one honorary daughter, (Becky S.) and three grandchildren. So, we split Mom seven ways.

I'm not squeamish, but the cremains (lovely word) bothered me. In addition to the powdery stuff one might expect, her bag contained large bone fragments, some a couple inches long and exposing the spongy inside structure. They gave me the willies. This was part MY MOTHER'S ACTUAL BODY of all things. Ewww.

Cremation is like turning a person into a bulk grocery item. Suddenly you need a scoop and a plastic bag to deal with them.

My first in-person experience with cremains was 14 years ago. My friend, Malin, held an informal memorial for her beloved cat (named Clubber due to a sixth toe on each foot). She scattered Clubber's ashes into Chicago's part of Lake Michigan, gently pouring the ashes into her palm and then tossing them into the waves, handful after handful.

I felt sad for her. Loss sucks. Looking down at my hands twisting in my lap, being all inwardly reflective about life and death, I discovered Clubber's ashes had blown awry and were now clinging to my black jeans.
Craptastic.

Just great. What do I do now? I wondered. Would it be offensive to brush off Clubber like so much stray dust?

Do I ignore the presence of her cat's ashes on my pants and just let him follow me home on the subway? Just let it slide that I was (technically) transporting a body on the Red Line train?

I don't remember what I did. (Sorry Malin! Sorry Clubber!) I just remember that suddenly cremains were not an abstract concept, they were physical reality, one that demanded some etiquette of which I was ignorant. As if I needed another area of etiquette where I could unwittingly display my deficits.

I thought of the Clubber fiasco yesterday as my sisters and I got down to the business of separating our mother's body into seven plastic bags. Does one pour out one's mother like dumping sugar into coffee, or measure her out like one is making cookies?

I went to the kitchen to find a scoop of some sort. I wanted to divide her as evenly as possible to avoid the inevitable sibling fights: "Hey, she got more!"

I grabbed a deep serving spoon. Becky S., the honorary daughter, held the bags while I scooped, leveled, and dispensed the ashes. Cookies it is.

Most of the time I was growing up, my mom was about 300 pounds (I think).
She never tried to lose weight. She had given up by the time I was old enough to be cognizant of the fact that she was considered overweight. The last few years she was alive she lost over a hundred pounds due to weird eating preferences and a shrinking appetite. But she wasn't trying to lose any, I don't think.

On the other hand, I've lost and gained back significant amounts of weight three times in my life.

She also smoked cigarettes as long as I knew her. Numerous times she tried to quit smoking, struggling mightily and failing each time. When she entered the hospital three weeks before she died, naturally she wasn't allowed to smoke there, so she declared she'd quit. She said that since she couldn't walk, all we had to do is keep them away from her and she'd be a non-smoker. So, at age 71, three weeks before she died, she finally quit smoking. When it no longer mattered.

Considering my mother's now in ash-form, that's kind of funny.

I thought of that as I scooped her cremains into a bunch of bags.

And to top off her list of late-coming efforts, after death and at the age of 72 and a half, my mother was finally on Weight Watchers.

You see, the serving spoon I had grabbed was designed by Weight Watchers to hold exactly a half-cup while disguised as a normal, if beautiful, serving spoon; no one would be the wiser that you were watching your portion sizes.
She'd been served.

It turned out that there was enough of her to go around the seven bags twice with my half-cup spoon. We each got exactly one cup of Mom.
See why I'm reminded of the bulk food section?

Worried that the big honking bone fragments would freak out the grandkids, we ran the ashes through a strainer and one of the sisters adopted most of them.
I strained my own bag of ashes too, since the bones were giving me the aforementioned willies.

But I sat there for a few minutes, just staring at the strainer full of splintered bones. This was Mom. She'd looked better, but I couldn't give away her bones just because I couldn't face what they really were: slivers of human bones. Maybe the creep factor will lessen. I just can't let go yet of what little I have left of her.

I put "bones" in the search box of my iPhone Bible ("Bible Bingo" for the 21st century) and came up with Psalm 51:8.
"Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice."

Mom's life was not easy. Her death was pretty hard too.
Her bones have been crushed.
I hope though, that they can now rejoice in the Lord, somehow teaching my own tired bones how to join in.

Classic Kind/Cruel scenario.
(Kitty, Jenny Kelly 2007)

You've got to be kind to be cruel. 'Cuz then they're not expecting the cruel.

When life hands you lemons, don't suck on them.

Sean, contemplating lemons, Jenny Kelly, 2008

I've come to see lemons as gifts with very annoying wrapping paper.
And now--since I'm so old and wise--when I get beaned by a lemon, I look out for God dropping a five pound bag of sugar. Okay, I don't know where the water enters this analogy, but ignore that. Oh wait, the water is my tears. Ha ha.
No--don't hit the back button! I'm not ususally that hokey.

Today I got hit twice with an old, familiar lemon.
I call it the Hill From Hell (HFH)
On school days my husband, Rob, and I walk our kids to school with a bunch of other neighborhood parents. It is like having coffee with friends, but without the benefit of caffeine and with a lot of huffing and puffing.
The elementary school sits on top of the HILL FROM HELL (H.F.H.). Any more steep and long and I would refuse to walk it. But altitude aside, we live close to the school so it feels pretty lazy to drive. It's the only reliable exercise the children and I get, and literally, I feel like I need to keep up with the Jones'. The neighbors walk right past our house, for gosh sake, I can't be a bad role model to my kids in front of them! (It's too late to impress the kids.)

Every morning for the last 5? 6? years I have dreaded the walk to school. I have taken every possible excuse to drive up or skip going up altogether. Rob ALWAYS walks. The kids don't need me to go too.
But I went this morning.

When we get to the HFH, I walk behind Rob and our son. Rob hikes up the H.F.H. without a drop of sweat, like a mountain goat on a stroll.
In contrast, I drag my butt up this tortuous topography, breathing harder than a horse in heat, my glutes complaining they never did nothin' to deserve this. My friend, Ash, walks up behind me and cheerily asks me how I'm doing today. I can't form words; I just turn to him with my tongue lolling out the side of my mouth, panting like my dopey dog after an hour of fetch.
I think "Can't talk--breathing!"

I look up the steep path ahead of me. It's disheartening how far we've still got left.
My daughter walks beside me holding my hand. She hugs my arm to encourage me to keep going. Not in an 8 year old "hurry up, you're embarrassing me" way, but a gentle, innocent "You can do it" sort of way. Her eyes say she loves me, believes in me, her hand pressed into mine says she values my walking beside her.
Fording the HFH says I love her.
Julia added her sweetness just in time to stop my bitterness. Okay, I'm gonna be frequently a little hokey in just this post.

After drop off, the parents, now fancy-free, gab as we walk back down the hill.
Halfway down the other parents stop suddenly, huddling around a young boy who's crying. He's adorable with red hair and a round face, which makes it all the more heartbreaking when that face is set with fear and embarrassment. By the time I get to him, my friend Heather (an amazing writer! http://livewithflair.blogspot.com/) has her arm around his shoulders and tells us he's having trouble breathing. He is one of the many students who walk to school alone, like normal kids. Like I did in from third grade on, after my sisters moved up to grades in other schools. (Uphill...but only one way. What is it with this town putting all its elementary schools on hilltops?)

We parents all gather around, clucking like concerned hens, and a parent asks if any of us can walk back with him to school. I turn around and start walking with him, realizing the rest of the parents all have jobs. Me being unemployed and without much ambition, I'm available. Yay, laziness! (And Yay, Rob, my great husband with a great job at a great company who makes my availability possible!)

The boy and I trudge up the Hill, me talking to him, asking him dumb questions to take his mind off the terror of not breathing well. Since the steep incline is probably making that worse, I offer to carry him piggy back; he declines. We keep climbing.

He glances sideways at me and says in a timid whisper, "You don't have to walk me to the door, I know the way to the nurse." He's not forceful about it, so I just figure he's embarrassed to have some kid's Mom walking his keister to school.
I tell him "You're important. I have to make sure you get to the nurse." Where that came from, I'm not sure. It slipped out and I'm reminded of the nanny in the book The Help telling the young girl “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” Sometimes you need to hear it, and sometimes you need say it, with both your mouth and your feet as you trudge the steepest part of the HFH with a kid you just met.

Now, I love doing good deeds. It's like money in the Lazy Bank. "I did my good deed for the day, so now I can lie around and read the rest of that romance novel." So I was pleased to get that deed done early.
I guess that's some sugar for the HTH lemon. But there's more in store.

People are so impressed with even minimal efforts, luckily for me. It's like the ultimate con. I walk an extra block and everyone's impressed.
Maybe it's just impressive because I'm not much of a walker.

I try to pass him off to the first school employee we come across, the parking lot crossing guard. I tell her the situation, but she asks if I can walk him the rest of the way so she can stay at her post.
"Sure." I say.
"You're so nice to walk back with him." she says.
See? Told ya! Ka-ching. Not only am I walking him back, but now I'm doing HER a favor by walking a few hundred more feet.

We get to the door, I explain the situation to one of the school employee posted at the door. Before leading the boy to the nurse's office, she says to me "Aren't you nice for walking all the way back here with him!"
Oh yeah, the sugar just keeps on coming.

The other school door monitor reiterates how nice I am for doing this, while looking at me with gratitude sparkling in her eyes.
Like I always say, the bar for kindness is set pretty low.
Even though I predicted her response, I get sheepish about it.
Because, really, I walked a block. That's it.
A lot of people, seeing a kid crying and short of breath, would do what needed to be done.
"I'm only human, I couldn't let him go alone." I say.

She smiles and here comes more sugar. She verifies whose mom I really am and says she really loves my kids. "I know we aren't supposed to have favorites, but they are sweet and wonderful. You've done a great job raising them."
Ha! Whatever, lady! You didn't see me yelling this morning for one kid to take our barking dog out to pee, and nagging the other one to put her shoes on. I probably threw in a snide defensive remark to Rob while I was a it.
"It's so hard to believe that," I told her.
"It's true," she insists, smiling like I'm a celebrity.
Thank you God, for sending me a lemon that positioned me to receive that heart melting compliment. I didn't even know her and she felt moved to tell me that.

When I get home Rob says how great I was to walk back with the boy, and says I ought to call Heather to tell her the he made it.
I call Heather and she repeats the litany of praise for walking.
Again, nothing to get so excited about!

Three hours later I go to hear my friend, Colette, lead a bible study of sorts at a christian prep school only a three minute drive from my house. I walk up to her and she says she heard I'd already been serving God this morning.
I give her a confused look.
"You know, the little boy on the way to school?" She added, eyebrows raised like I was being thick.
Heather must have told her. She cannot keep from publicizing a friend's good deeds. One of the things I love about her. But so fast?
She gives me a doe-eyed look and says "Thank you so much for coming!"

Now I'm being thanked for driving three minutes to get there.
I imagine afterwards she'll again thank me for coming, but by then I will have added the considerable efforts of sitting comfortably and passively listening.

God is crazy.

An interesting day today.
A handful of things went wrong and a handful of things went right.

Upturn:
Snowdrops Therapy




My first spring bloom sighting. Usually it's crocuses, but this year it's Snowdrops sighted next to a parking place at my therapist's office. It was a nice reminder of God's love. Pure, pretty, hopeful. I could think of no ulterior motive for God to put them there other than love or greetings. Thank you, God.

Downturn:
But seconds later in therapy I threw away that gratitude faster than a Great-Aunt's money-less birthday card. I ranted, complained, and fussed over stuff.
You know, therapy.

Upturn:
Right after leaving therapy I spontaneously feel like going (unknowingly) to the same place where two friends are meeting. I'm still upset, so they pray for me and encourage me. Among other things, they give me permission to let go of some of the tangled fear, and pare down unneeded obligations.

Downturn:
I cannot resist retail therapy; I blow a wad of my allowance on a beautiful metal raised filigree rollerball pen from the nearby Nittany Quill stationary and gift store.

Upturn:
I love my incredible pen!
I call a friend and tell her I can't give her drawing lessons anymore because I've discovered I get very anxious even teaching informally. She thanks me, sincerely, for telling her the truth.
Ha ha, now that I think about it, maybe the lessons stressed her out too!
But the relief is palpable, I can breathe, envision peace.


If I cut out all the blather in the middle, I can say Snowdrops = Peace.

Drawing up

Drew my hand last week during church.
Still like it.


Also like the fact that I'm drawing so much lately.

I finished a drawing today, one I started a couple months ago.
Goooood feeling.
Stay tuned!

Repetition is key in giving commandments.

So God said it a few times!




The photos are two different doodles I put on envelopes going to the church office. I do this every month now and I get a big kick out of it.




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Barely passing the urine (test)

Funny thing about OBGYN appointments. They frequently ask for a urine sample right when you get there.
But of course, often I make a pit stop at before remembering I'll need it in a half an hour at my OBGYN appointment. All that golden urine, down the toilet.
One time I pulled into the doctor's parking lot before remembering--in a panic--they'd need a sample. I could tell I could not guarantee enough supply for the demand. My bladder felt sleepy and empty.
I guzzled a can of soda and headed in, saying a prayer for pee.
I am not above praying to God for conveniently timed fluid elimination.
I'm not above praying for just about anything. The worst He could say is "No."
Which He seemed to say this time.
After check-in and the initial record update and symptom questions, I was
presented with a small plastic cup.
"I don't think I can produce anything." I fretted.
"Just try." She said, with a smile determined to make the best of a bad situation.
Great, I thought. I'm going to be THAT patient holding up the whole schedule because nothing can happen before her urine is tested.
I have a bad track record with urine sampling.
My body gets performance anxiety and I'm squeezed tight as a drumstick at the bottom of a bucket of KFC.
Holding that Dixie cup in the general va-cinity is like shining a spotlight on my bladder.
I don't often get penis envy, but when I do, it's related to convenience peeing.
I wish I had a built-in spout, for those times when I'm in the woods, or a porta-potty, it's freezing outside and I don't want to uncover as much skin as it takes to do the job. Or when I'm riding on the interstate and I don't need an audience to see me unpacking the whole kit & kaboodle by the side of the road.
Not to get TOO disgusting, but...
When providing a sample, what lands in the specimen cup it sometimes called a "catch".
There's a reason it's called a "catch" for women. Without a convenient Man Hose, its anyone's guess which direction this girl's whizz is gonna fly. And the catcher's mitt it only two inches in diameter. Tension in the naughty bits also determines the velocity of the product, adding another wild card in the collection strategy.
"If I hold it at this angle what if it shoots the other way?
What if I bend forward, will that help?
If hold the cup too far away, and it's only trickle, will it escape out the back, following the buttock+gravity curve? (there's a mathematical formula yet to be named, I bet.)
And so on. All this scares the bladder into going on break.
Back on that day I sat, I waited, I rocked back and forth (a trick that worked when I was pregnant) but my plastic cup remained empty. Ten minutes passed, instead of my urine. I scooted toward the front of the seat, then the back, leaned different ways, cursed and then prayed again.
"God, please! I gotta fill this cup and quick!"
No Go.
One thing I've learned lately is if I'm tangled up over stuff, and I stop and thank God for whatever is possible to thank Him for at that moment, that act of saying thanks will ease my anxiety and I can relax.
So I thanked him for something, I can't remember what, maybe that I had health insurance, or that a curious toddler was not also in the bathroom with me, or even that there was free parking. (When I lived in Chicago, parking fees were so high that reserved parking places are often given as part of a woman's dowry, in place of the traditional dairy goat, or deep dish pizza joint.)
In this case, when I thanked him for a fraction of my many blessings, I was finally able to relax my pelvic floor, and my cup runneth over.
I was grateful all over that place.

TRIPLE WORD SCORED!

Aaaaaw Yeah! 70 points with five letters!





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Your Mom

I neglected to get the name of the site where I got this image. Sorry!

It's Mother's Day on Sunday. My first one without my Mom, since she passed away last December.

(frowny face)

So far all the  "First _____ without Mom" events have been bearable. Christmas, My birthday, her wedding anniversary, these things have all come and gone without any--or much--crying.

Whenever I miss her, I'll pull on the woolen poncho she used to wear all the time. (After Mom died, my sister and nearly came to blows to determine which of us would get to keep it. I resorted to bribery.)
It's a bright turquoise poncho in a woven Mexican pattern. The first time I wore it, my husband's flew open and he said something like "Hola muchacha!"  Later at my lovely friend Heather's house, her husband greeted me with "Wow, Jen, where'd you park your burro?"
I mostly wear it around the house now.

Right now, I'm just a little annoyed with myself for forgetting she's gone. While shopping this last week, I caught myself picking up an object and thinking "Wow. I should get this for Mom."
And then I remembered she's dead and I get peeved. I mean, there's all this knowledge about the stuff she likes that I don't need anymore, but can't forget.

Like a month after leaving a job, I still remembered where the matches were kept in the bathroom (for No. 2 aromas), and the name of the office network server, plus the spiel I had to unroll each time I answered the phone all day. It was just taking up brain space that I could have used for better things, like composing wittier hate mail to the old boss.

Anyway. In addition to the phantom gift shopping, frequently there have been times where I'm merely reminded that she's gone and my nose will get all out of joint. I'll see her favorite Werther's butterscotch candies and pout. I'll see an Oprah magazine in the checkout line and get grumpy that I won't be able to borrow her copies anymore. I'll flip past QVC while channel surfing and remember how much she used to enjoy ordering a ring or bracelet. I almost cried in a doctors waiting room because the Ellen Degeneres Show was on and for a split second I thought we were sitting in her kitchen watching together . Great. Now I'm ruined for watching Ellen. Thanks a lot for dying, Mom. Sheesh.

Recently, a friend mentioned she was going to Easter dinner at her mother's.
I did a double take, and then had this fleeting thought: "Oh yeah. Some people still have a mother."

That sounds maudlin, but really I just forget, and "reverse deja vu" happens, where it's so jarring to remember what used to be normal, but isn't anymore.

I told a friend about how I wear Mom's poncho sometimes to feel closer to her. My friend got a sweet "aaaaww" face and said "That's nice. Does it still smell like her?"
Smiling, I replied, "Thankfully, no."

This Mother's day I plan to lounge on the couch with the poncho draped over me and wrapped around my children snuggling up to either side. While they watch cartoon network, I'll close my eyes and feel the fabric wound around us, imagining we're in Mom's comforting arms, as I remember them from when I was a kid, when her body was still full and soft and warm.

It's BIG, isn't it?

Christian much?

Actually three inches tall! Total bling.


Below is a copy of the eulogy I wrote and read at my Mom's memorial service. I've edited a bit, to shape and polish the writing from what I read that night. I was still working on it in the car on the way to the memorial, and it still needed some final touches.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cross pictured above comes with a funny story.

Mom wore a jeweled cross for a long time, up until about two hours
after her death. I kept noticing it over and over when she was in the
hospital, and later when I helped Bob, Margie and Becky Strouse care
for Mom during her last week on Earth.

It’s been three years since I gave my life to Jesus, which I did
mostly because I was doing a horrible job of running my life on my
own. Although I'd never seen her read the Bible, Mom usually wore a
cross, so I figure she believed...something. But still I never really
talked with her about my new direction in life. I got
the feeling she thought Christians were just a little misguided, or
narrowly focused. I was a little embarrassed anyway, since it seemed
so…uncool.

Plus, it’s hard to talk over Mom's TV, which she kept at full volume.
And who can compete with the Food Channel?

This last time she was in the ER, I stood next to her bed. For hours
she sat hunched over, her arms limp, hands in her lap. She kept her
eyes closed except to give the stink eye to anyone who came in to
get blood or adjust her BiPap breathing mask. She didn’t speak much
except to restate "I want to go home," as if I hadn't heard already. When she first got there, she spit it out like a command. Two hours later it was like an exasperated sigh. Two more hours and it was a whimper.

I never knew if she meant her home in Spring Mills, or her post-corporeal Home with God. She always referred to dying a "Going Home."

At one point when I was alone in the room, I began to pray out loud,
but quiet, in case she wasn’t too happy with Jesus at that moment. She
was already grouchy as a bear. It had been a long time since I’d
prayed over her. I watched her cross necklace abruptly rise with her
chest as the Bipap machine pushed oxygen in, and then drop as the
machine sucked out co2. I kept wondering what that cross symbolized
for her. Was it just pretty, or did she love Jesus?

A day or two before she died I was reading out loud to her from a
Marianne Williamson book, which was a huge relief from the insipid mystery novel she had all of us reading to her. (Becky thought Mom just wanted to finish it before she died).

She stopped me with a wave of her hand and asked if we could pray for some people. I held her hand and closed my eyes. She began wheezing a short prayer for each member of her family and some friends before falling asleep again. I thought it so like her: she couldn’t walk or stand, and could barely breathe but she was pouring out prayers for the ones she loved.

December 4, 2010, the night she died, I arrived at 7 pm to sit with her so Bobby could
get some sleep. Although in a hurry to get to the bathroom, Bob paused
by her bed to touch her hand and say ‘I love you’. I went over to the
bed to let her know I was there to take over for Bobby. I leaned over her, to hear any whispered request for water or milk. I did a breathing check, like I always did when I saw her asleep, but she was not moving. She had color and her hand was warm, but she was gone.
Bob’s last words to her had been ‘I love you.’
Mine had been “Hi, mom, you want some milk?”

After everyone had been contacted, we waited around for the nurse to
come verify her death. I sat slouched in her wheelchair and watched her
color gradually fade into the pallor of a yellow wax bean. This caused
the cross to stand out brighter in contrast. Her last few weeks I had
reassured myself that she was alive by checking for its movement in
time with her ragged breath. Its stillness was unexpectedly jarring.

I spent a lot of the first couple days grieving by cruising Amazon.com
for a cross necklace to remember her by. I know, forcing myself to
shop sounds like agony beyond imagination, but I managed to endure.
(That was sarcasm.)

The cross in the above picture sang to me. Delicate silver vines entwine the
open filigree cross, supporting sparkling crystal flowers. It looks
nothing like mom's but I loved it way beyond any of the hundreds of
crosses I viewed.

I ordered this from amazon.com two days after Mom died.

When it arrived I opened the box, and pulled out a navy velvet
drawstring pouch. You know, I should have realized by the size of the
drawstring pouch that I was in for a surprise.

I pulled it out and busted up laughing. It was indeed the same
beautiful cross I’d wanted, but it was so ginormous that it was gaudy.
It was so like her, sweet and sparkling with light, but not so tasteful as to be boring.

I love her.

I miss her.

But when I see the big honkin cross, I’m going to smile for her.

I doubt I'll find out why wearing the cross was important to her. But its constant home on her chest reminded me that He was with both of us as she struggled down her path leading Home.

The morning of the Memorial Service my dear friend Kim sent me an email to comfort me today especially, because of the Memorial. I thought it sounded like just the advice Mom might give, back in the day:

"Tonight let yourself be wrapped in the love of all those who join
you--love for your mother and love for you. This may be an odd way to
think about it, but when mourning I try to see my grief as a very
precious thing that I metaphorically just hold in my hand and sit
with. Sometimes it means I sob and sometimes I laugh and sometimes I
just remember, but I always try to do so with the greatest respect for
the love we shared and the loss I feel. I hope you have a blessed
day."

Space for rent. Joking.

Betty Lee Rodgers, 1939-2010

Hello to all my (two) followers!

I bet you're asking: "When are you actually going to POST?"
It would have been sooner, but lots of death got in the way. (Cue dramatic music.)

Mom died Dec. 4, 2010, after a roller coaster three weeks of being almost dead then coming back to life stronger and then declining again into a miserable death. She'd been sick forever, but that made it all the more strange when she actually died, instead of rallying like she usually did.
Then a dear friend died three weeks later. He had also been sick for awhile, so that was not a surprise, either.
But even when death is expected, it's still not fun when it shows up.
It's like I ran a marathon and tripped into a face-plant across the finish line. I'm relieved to stop running, but I'm now face-down in the dirt.

It's been a few months, now.
I'm pretty sure I'm in the "Eeyore" stage of grieving. (I mope a lot.)
But not as much as I'd thought, which is confusing.

I'm confused because losing my Mom was not the experience I thought it would be. I anticipated different feelings, fewer self-revelatory surprises that I wish I'd figured out earlier. Nothing feels "right" so I might as well not expect anything to be that way.

So now, I'm winging it. I am blessed that I have time and space to do that.
Thanks for all the great people who have comforted me.
Soon I'll post my eulogy that I read at Mom's memorial, there have been some requests for it.
I want to end on a happy note, but if I wait for a great quip to emerge from my mind, it will further delay this posting.
So, a cliched reassurance for all (two) of you: I am truly fine, just passing through a storm, learning to dance in the rain.
(That last part is from a plaque in my bathroom. I stare at it a lot.)

Headline: Area Woman Destroyed Anniversary, Now Destroys Gift

 The MoMA Design Store Square Ribbon Vase, by American designer Peter Hewit - 

Photo from home-decor.hsn.com

“Honey, I’ve got some bad news…No, no.  I just…um…accidentally broke THE Vase.”  I said. I pressed one palm against my bucking heart, while the other one sweat all over the phone.

We have many vases, but there's just one that would merit such a nervous confession.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for my husband's response. When I accidentally dropped and broke the plate that rotates in the microwave, he was Not Happy, and that thing wasn't emotionally charged at all.

THE Vase has been a sore spot between me and My Patient Husband (MPH) for ten years. It was his  present to me for our 5th Anniversary. Back then, MPH would attempt to choose gifts for me without my “help,” (read: explicit instructions.) I like anniversary gifts that are expensive and flashy, or lacking that, thoughtful enough to show the he pays a suitable amount of attention to me. Yes, I'm as shallow as a kiddie pool.

THE Vase he got for me was not flashy.  It was thoughtful, and a bit expensive, but those facts were woefully hidden in a crappy-looking box.

My face tends to telegraph my moods, which paired with my minuscule capacity for tact, leads to an inability to hide what I really think. What my face doesn't say, my foot will provide on it's way to my mouth. Whatever my face was doing as I pulled off the wrapping paper, it was not good.  I couldn’t hide the disappointment. Then, quickly, MPH couldn't hide his either. It all went in the hand basket then.

"But wait! What the **** was wrong with it," You ask?

One problem. Okay, four.  

First, it was still in its box with a really sucky photo of it on the cardboard. It looked to me like he'd picked it up on clearance at a grocery store, inexpensively. Not Anniversary material.

The second problem was that I pulled out of that box a minimalist glass vase consisting of two nine inch squares of thick tempered glass with a thick metal ribbon sandwiched between them in the shape of a round vessel. (See picture above, imagine it without the tulip) It was heavier than our unabridged dictionary and it looked very…masculine.  Not pretty, not flashy. It was understated, elegant in its precise geometric simplicity, and somehow monolithic, despite being only nine inches high. Even when I carefully set it down, it made a loud thunk.  It was a man's vase. (My apologies to the designer, Peter Hewit, I really tried to like it!)

Third, since I assumed he bought it at whatever store was closest (we lived in Chicago at the time and he rarely ventured into the city) I had no idea he had (thoughtfully) taken the train all the way downtown to browse the gift shop of the Museum of Contemporary Art (I loved this gift shop! The museum wasn't too shabby either.)

The Fourth problem was that THE Vase was still in the box, meaning it did not contain flowers! Now, you may be saying to yourself "that's a Glass Half-Full situation." To your face, I would agree with you.  But inside I'd be shouting: "B.S.! That Glass is Half-Empty!"

Buying the flowers was the whole point in the first place! (Would he give me an empty ring box next? Take me to a closed restaurant?) I assumed because THE Vase was itself the gift, it'd be awhile before he'd work up more money to put something in it. This postponed indefinitely any ability to boast of my romantic husband with 'frequent flower miles.' Har-dee-har.

THE Vase was actually quite beautiful once it had flowers in it. But, if I had just received it in a shopping bag with the museum’s name on it, that alone might have restrained my face before it let rip its first impression.

How was I supposed to know he put all that effort and expense into the gift when the clues were all missing?

That was my defense, which I held onto, and reiterated, all these years, whenever the vase was either brought out to use, or mentioned in therapy.

A better question would have been: "How could I NOT see how obnoxious and bratty I was being?"
Or, “How could I still doubt he really loves me?”
Followed by: “How much proof will ever be enough?"

Yes, yes, a price tag is not a reasonable measure of one's worth. It's immature and hurtful.
But as my friend David said once while reflecting on some of his personal faults, “We are...what we are.”  Then he shrugged his shoulders, letting them speak the question:  “What can you do?"

Some part of me will always crave big gestures as proof of his love, and another part will be ashamed that I still want them.  And a third part of me will always enjoy fart jokes. (My shoulders repeat the question: “what can you do?”)

What can you do when you struggle with a selfish, ungrateful heart which you have no idea how to fix, you just know it's hurting? Isn't the affection of a husband supposed to take away that gnawing fear that you're unlovable and not worth much?

What can you do when your wife judges the depths of your love by the amount of money you're willing to spend on her, against your better judgment? Did I mention my husband is patient?
(I still say “a waste of money” is in the eye of the beholder.) 

My Patient Husband's response to hearing that I'd destroyed THE Vase was that he understood it was not intentional, and he wasn’t upset. If I remember right, he seemed amused at how anxious I had been.

It had not broken, really. The glue holding it together melted in the dishwasher. I was trying to be a good wife by cleaning the indestructable green scum I had let form on the inside by leaving the latest anniversary flowers sit in it until they were withered, brown and moldy.  THE Vase fell into pieces in my hands.
You know...microwave plates, flower vases...perhaps I shouldn't do dishes anymore, since I am now The Destroyer.

You bet your sweet keister I'm relieved it broke, but staring at its parts on the counter, I was surprised how little victory I felt. I outlived it, I ought to be dancing on it's grave. But like a dark amulet, when it broke, my bad feelings evaporated. The fight is over, long past. I no longer need to pretend I'm gracious by bringing it out, dusting it off and hiding it under a bunch of pretty flowers. Thank God the things of this world are temporal.

Now I breathe easier, smile faster and hug longer, which seems to inspire MPH to do the same. If only we'd had a dishwasher ten years ago.